


Promise

by helenagray



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, angst now, post 8x04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenagray/pseuds/helenagray
Summary: When he made love to her that last night, some part of her had known. Still, she'd tried to find solace in his touch, the way he kissed her, the way he held her so.This should be.When she woke to find him gone, the space beside her still warm, she thought, trying so hard to believe —he’ll be right back.And then, when she saw the emptiness where his sword, his things had been, the pain took her breath away, sharper than any blade she’d ever felt.* * * * *





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like so many of you, I've been a mess -- heartbroken -- since 8x04. This is my attempt to treat with it. I have to go through it with her. But there is NO WAY they are ended, just like that. I won't have it -- 8x05/8x06 be damned. 
> 
> Oh, and even though we didn't see it on screen, there is NO WAY they didn't hug and cuddle and hold each other and other things besides. Because, seriously. 
> 
> Title inspired by the song of the same name by Ben Howard. 
> 
> * * * * *

**One **

They had shared her room for over four weeks — their things, their lives filling the small space in a way that had come to feel natural. 

They hadn’t really talked about the future, but gentle caresses in the night, mornings waking together, his eyes soft and filled with affection, felt like unspoken affirmation — _This should be; this_ ** _will_** _be._

The thrill of coming home to each other at the end of the day was an exquisite thing. Sometimes Jaime would be waiting for her — with food they’d promptly ignore, with stories of his day that would quickly turn to talk of what he would have rather been doing before he _showed_ her, precisely. Once, she’d returned to find him sprawled out on the rug by the fire, naked — playful. He’d brought her to peak no fewer than five times that evening, sending her floating form peak to peak until she could hardly function. 

Their wounds — the cuts and bites and bruises of the long night — healed gradually, leaving behind marks and scars that would always bind them. They had fought together, side by side; a deadly force — in tune with each other, even as the darkest horrors of the world had poured down upon them. 

The intensity of that experience carried into their lovemaking, manifesting in a heartbreaking tenderness that made her weep, and in a savage, consuming passion, when their strength and desire crashed together with force. 

Brienne was always privy to news from the south, but they didn’t talk about it much. It was almost as if he didn’t want to know, and looking back, that was when and why the first small sliver of worry had entered her consciousness. 

Then, when it was major news that arrived — the naval forces ambushed and destroyed, a dragon dead, the queen’s aid captured — he had faced it with her, sharing in her worries. But at the same time, a shadow settled over him and she could read its shape and nature. They didn’t speak of it, even as it darkened and grew over the next days.

When he made love to her that last night, some part of her had known. Still, she'd tried to find solace in his touch, the way he kissed her, the way he held her so. 

_This should be._

When she woke to find him gone, the space beside her still warm, she thought, trying so hard to believe — _he’ll be right back_. 

And then, when she saw the emptiness where his sword, his things had been, the pain took her breath away, sharper than any blade she’d ever felt. 

She found him where she knew he’d be and she confronted him, her voice echoing in the dark, empty courtyard. 

“They’re going to destroy that city. You know they will.”

She could tell it affected him, that she cut right to the heart of it — and then, to the heart of him; her friend, her lover. Her comrade in arms. Her _Jaime_ , who had survived with her, endured with her, through so much. She reached for him, drew her hands to his face, forced him to look at her. And though he tried, he couldn’t fully hide the disorientation he felt, that she should express something other than anger and loathing. 

“You’re not like your sister. _You’re not._ You’re better than she is. You’re a good man and you can’t save her. _You don’t have to die with her_.” 

She could see his walls buckling, threatening to fall, because after everything, she _knew_ him. Saw him fully, light and dark — all of him — and loved him still. 

But then he was steeling himself, closing off, and she couldn’t hold back her tears as she begged — pleaded with him to stay. 

He lifted her hands away, his eyes darkening, and she knew, as her tears spilled over into sobs— he was going. 

He was gone.

 

— — — 

 

After, when her body stilled and her tears quieted, she walked. 

She wasn’t dressed for it, but she hardly cared; she needed motion — couldn’t bear the thought of returning to her room.

She walked, long strides against the frozen ground, and tried to focus on the strength of the muscles in her legs, powering her forward — tried to will that strength into the rest of her. But her heart was shattered, the pieces crushed and small beneath unforgiving weight, and she felt anything but strong. 

She walked and tried to hold her back and shoulders up, but the wide, aching hollowness in her chest made it hard to breathe, impossible to stand tall. The pain was palpable; too great. 

That she should finally know the affection of a man, the fullness of being with him — the mad, tender joining of their bodies — and have it all end so quickly felt cruel and pitiable.

Was it just a week ago, that he’d found her in the courtyard, pressed her into an alcove and kissed her wildly? And was it just weeks before that, when she had straddled him for the first time, emboldened, on the chair in her room, discovering delirious new sensations she could hardly get enough of?

And in between all of their explorations of each other, the nights when they had barely slept, they had laughed together, shared meals together. They’d talked — of their childhoods, their fathers. The many haphazard times their paths had crossed. 

They’d made no promises, didn’t talk of a future, _and yet…_

Brienne walked, snow and frost crunching beneath her feet, and she wondered if she would ever feel warm again. The heat of him next to her, holding her, had been a new kind of warmth, better than a fire. Lost to her now. 

She walked, alone now as ever, her sad, aching body moving her forward, somehow. She had no destination — just… _anywhere but her room._

Some minutes later, she stopped suddenly, surprised to find herself outside the sept.

The seven-pointed star above the doorway of the modest structure was both a haunting and comforting symbol as she stared at it. Brienne was not deeply religious, but she’d been raised under the Faith of the Seven. That she should be standing here now, in the presence of her childhood canon, outside of a space built for Lady Catelyn, was perhaps not wholly accidental. 

She pushed the door open and gently peered inside. 

A small fire flickered in a cauldron in the center of the room, and there were candles below most of the seven walls, many still burning brightly, some dark, a mound of wax — earlier worshippers having long gone. 

The sept was empty now, and she stepped inside, welcoming the warmth as she closed the door behind her. 

The Seven were here as statues — beautiful, haunting works that sat in alcoves along each of the walls. One or more of them had been damaged during the long night, along with part of the roof, she knew, but Lady Sansa had seen fit to to have the space repaired quickly; no signs of destruction remained. 

Brienne stared at each of the statutes, one by one. She could almost hear her childhood septa’s voice, reciting the traits, wisdom, and stories of each of them.

In the end, she knelt at the Warrior. His face was solemn and resolute — ready to fight, to die, to sacrifice. 

She lit a fresh candle and placed it below him. 

“Please give me strength,” she whispered, her head bowed. “And… _please_ …give him strength, too.” 

She thought of Jaime, riding away, into the dark of night. Did he know some fraction of her heart went with him? 

She rose, her head still lowered, and then, for reasons she didn’t understand, Brienne crossed to the Mother. 

She stared long at the statue’s face, studying the sweet curve of her cheeks and lips, her gentle eyes — and then her hands. They were strong and loving — protecting. Tears welled. 

She knelt and lit a candle, and then, inexplicably, another. When she bowed her head this time, she wept. 

_“Please…let him live…”_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a bit longer than I'd originally planned. And angst again, here, but I swear, we do not go the way of the show. I will borrow bits and pieces from it, but most aspects of 8x05 I will fully and completely ignore. *Giant shrug* at 8x06. I'll watch it, and it'll either influence here or it won't, but herein will lie a better ending more worthy (I hope) of these characters we have loved and known for so long. This is my therapy. 
> 
> <3
> 
> * * * * *

**Two**

She had vouched for him — now she had to tell Lady Sansa… _she'd been wrong._

She wanted, even still, to cover for him. To tell her Jaime was on his way to King’s Landing to _stop_ Cersei. That he _was_ honorable. That he would not betray them. 

That he would not betray her — _because…_

Because what? Because he’d lain with her? Because she had given, so readily, the whole of her? Because they’d survived the end of the world and she could trace by memory every wound and scar imprinted on his body -- and he, hers? Because he’d touched her face and looked at her with eyes that were glassy, warm, and full of…( _love_ , she’d thought)?

_Because…_

Because she was a fool.

Even now, she was delaying. Was it that she wanted to give him time, to get further away before they sent someone to catch him? 

She’d slept only a little, sheer exhaustion from her tears, her sorrow, eventually leaving her with nothing else but to shut down for a while, spent, when she finally went back to her room. 

The worst part was when she woke and, for a moment, _forgot_. She had reached for him, wanting for the morning caresses she had come to treasure — _and then…_

The pain was as acute as it had been last night, stealing her breath. 

Pod had stopped coming by after Jaime. Now, they only met outside, or in the hall, or some other place; never in her room, as they once had. _She’d have to tell him, too._

The bed still smelled like Jaime — like them, together. She wanted to rip the blankets and furs away, burn them. And she wanted to sink into them, wrap herself in them, breathe nothing else, and weep. 

Rising, facing the day, felt impossible. 

But she would.

 

— — — 

 

In the end, Lady Sansa guessed at her news. Her face was unreadable when she said the words Brienne had been dreading to speak, and Brienne could only nod, silently affirming. 

“When?”

“Last night, my lady. Late.” 

“And he means to rejoin his sister?” She scoffed, dismissing her own question. “Of course he does…”

Brienne looked at the floor near the base of Sansa’s chair, trying desperately to keep her emotions from display. 

“What does he know, that can hurt us?”

She took in a breath, steadying. “The general plan. The nature of our forces. But…I can’t imagine it’s anything Cersei doesn’t already know.” 

“And you didn’t go after him. Try to stop him?” 

Sansa’s tone was even, betraying no strong feelings on the matter, but Brienne read admonition — that she had failed a second time.

She stammered, hating the weakness in her voice. “I tried to convince him to remain, but…” She couldn’t finish. Mercifully, Sansa held her hand up. Her face softened, and Brienne was suddenly reminded of the statue of the Mother in the sept. 

“I’m sorry,” she said gently — _knowing_.

Brienne nodded, her eyes welling at the kindness. 

“Men are…thorny creatures. And rarely as wise as we would want them to be.”

Thorny…unwise. Did those things describe Jaime?  _…not the Jaime she had known._

Sansa rose and stepped close to Brienne, then she drew her into an embrace. It was unexpected, and Brienne stiffened at first, but there was something so genuine in the gesture that she could not help but to hug the younger woman back. 

And — Sansa had suffered so greatly at the hands of men. Raped, abused, manipulated — she had endured unimaginable things, her strength and poise today a testament to her incredible resilience — her will to survive.

_Brienne had_ … Loved — completely. And lost. 

So many things had filled her world in that short stretch of time. Bliss and desire...solidarity, belonging…comfort…affection. The joining of their bodies — dizzying and heady. And now — agony. Sorrow.

_If she had known how it all would go, would she have let him in her room that first night?_

They broke from their embrace, Sansa’s hand on her arm, ready now to talk of work. 

And Brienne knew, without a doubt — she would not have turned him away. 

That she would do it all again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’d left nothing behind but the scent of him and the haunting echoes of their brief time — moments sweet and heady and amorous, lingering; invading when a sensation, a sound, a smell, forced her to remember._  
>     
> * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning more like 8 chapters now. Huge huge thank you and <3 to everyone who has read and commented! Truly helps to keep me going.
> 
> Do let me know if you're feeling nervous with what I hint at here. I would never, ever want the show to take this road (not after their poor treatment of our characters in season 8), but I feel compelled, and will do my best to bring it to life in a believable, compelling, and satisfying way. 
> 
> Possibly another post before 8x06, but uncertain given work/life craziness. Can't believe the end is so near -- and how much there is for all of us to fix! ;) <3
> 
> * * * * *

**Three**

The south was quiet, for a time. 

Daenerys was regrouping after the ambush at Dragonstone and Jon and Davos were still making their way.

There was no comfort in the calm — it was just a delay; all of them poised, waiting, at the edge of a storm.

Sansa continued to oversee the rebuilding and repairs at Winterfell, but Brienne could sense a restlessness in her. Whether it was because she wished to be more involved in the affairs of the south, or if she just wanted it all to be over, it was hard to say. 

Brienne carried on, serving Lady Sansa’s needs, sparring with Pod and the others, continuing to train them. 

More than anything, what she felt lately was fatigue. It was like her grief manifest physically, hitting her at odd times during the day, leaving her spent and falling into sleep early most evenings. On the whole, she was glad for it, as it meant fewer waking hours in her room, where absence, emptiness, were resident.

There’d been no news of Jaime, and probably wouldn’t be until… 

Brienne stopped herself — the _until_ was too much, too heavy to hold against the equanimity she was fighting so hard to rebuild. 

There was no doubt Jaime would catch up to Jon and Davos — he would be faster, more agile as a single traveler — but he would go around them. Beyond that, she could only guess at his plans, and she would not indulge those paths of thought and worry. 

She tried very hard, in fact, not to think of him at all — failed miserably most of the time, but she tried.

And so the days passed — slowly. 

One afternoon Brienne found Lady Sansa studying her as she stood near, her brow furrowed, eyes narrow. She’d shown steady concern since Jaime had gone, ever careful not to push too hard but also keenly aware that Brienne needed to stay busy. There was something different there now, troubling the younger woman’s gaze. 

Brienne blanched ever slightly at the scrutiny, a reflex almost unconscious, but then she simply asked what was wrong.

Sansa met her gaze directly. “You look very tired, Brienne. I want you to rest this afternoon. _Please_.”

Brienne opened her mouth to protest the idea, but even before she could speak, Sansa’s face hardened — resolved. 

“Rest is the best thing you can do today, for both of us.” 

Brienne could only nod. And — she _was_ exhausted. Truth be told, she felt unsteady on her feet, weary in the muscles of her arms and legs. Despite the fact that she had slept so much lately, she couldn’t seem to shake the fatigue. Might be she was falling ill.

As she took her leave and made her way across the grounds, she found herself thinking of summertime when she was a child. How sometimes she would lie out on a balcony overlooking the ocean and listen, daydreaming, to the sound of the waves. And how, inevitably, the swell and release of the water would lull her, slowly, into a gentle rest, her few, innocent cares drifting away with the breeze. 

How she would love to have such a place to go now — somewhere outside and warm. Tucked away, where few would know to find her. And with no ghosts lurking — just the gentle sea, the wind, the air, warm and humid. 

Instead, her room, when she got there, was starkly dull and gray, with hard edges — chilly, though the fire still crackled. 

He’d left nothing behind but the scent of him and the haunting echoes of their brief time — moments sweet and heady and amorous, lingering; invading when a sensation, a sound, a smell, forced her to remember. 

What had started as a full and profound sadness in the first days after he had left twisted now with an acute _aching_ in her body — the absence of their physical pleasure, of his touch, striking her more forcefully than she would have ever thought possible.

She undressed, neglecting the fire, and laid down on the bed. It made that _creak_ that he used to laugh at sometimes — to which she would tease him about having grown up with a bed made of gold. _(And then he’d talk about how, here in Winterfell, his assigned bed was filled with straw — and then, how there was that whole stretch of time when he basically slept in a pile of his own filth and excrement, and wasn’t that just the most charming thing?)_

She missed their laughter. 

She missed his warmth. 

_Had he loved her?_

It was hard to think it had been anything else, but then — what did she really know of such things?

If she closed her eyes, wrapped the furs about her, she could drift back — almost feel him there, nestled against her. Could remember his hand, teasing at her, touching her… And the warmth, the flood of desire that he could call forth with mere words, a glance, the lightest brush against her tender flesh. 

Nothing was the same, and some part of her felt foolish, touching herself, wanting for him. But those pleasures she’d hardly known before had been awakened, impossibly intensified, and she _needed it_ — could scarcely live without some release from this  _yearning_ that sought to undo her. 

When she drifted to sleep after, she dreamed of the sea. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and kudoing and commenting! I appreciate it so very much. 
> 
> Our boy is, of course, very much alive. <3 So say we all. :) 
> 
> * * * * *

**Four**

A week on, the fatigue hadn’t completely vanished, but Brienne felt better than she had. She was back to a routine, days filled with simple acts of purpose. 

She’d taken to pitching in more with the repair effort, just earlier helping to move stone bricks ( _just a few,_ she’d assured Pod) to the outer parapet. The brief physical labor felt good. Unlike many things in the world, the process of repairing the structure was prescribed and straightforward. Using her hands, her arms in such an effort was soothing to her senses. 

The work left her feeling sore but also lighter — so much so that she had found herself laughing with Pod and their compatriots at the noon meal. (She’d almost forgotten she was capable.)

Now, the winter sun was shining, serene, in the afternoon, and Winterfell was as alive as it could be, a quarter full — all waiting, still, for the southern storm to play. 

Brienne’s palfrey had been injured during the long night when part of the stable roof had been crushed, and she stood now just outside the stall, looking over the animal she’d come to know and trust. 

The mare’s wounds had healed well, but she remained skittish with the stable hands and still spooked easily. She’d been lucky, though; many of the service horses had been killed by blunt force impact, or from broken bodies in the panic of the aftermath. 

Brienne approached gently, her hands and arms open. The horse brayed and bobbed its head, recognizing her — hoping, probably, that her presence meant she would get to escape confinement for a while. Brienne ran her hands along the soft mane and hummed soothing words against her body.

The physical wounds had been cared for, but the mental ones required care, too. She was meant for distance and Brienne vowed to take her out soon, for a day trip. 

“Soon,” she whispered, stroking the animal’s neck. “We will go together, and the open air, the freedom of the trail, will heal parts of us both.” 

She met Pod in the courtyard after, and they talked on their afternoon plans. He asked that she not take to sparring today, though he knew she was itching to swing a sword. _Maybe tomorrow,_ he offered — same as he had for the past two days. She felt fine, really, and hated the fuss, but she agreed to remain on the sidelines again today. 

Her attention was drawn away suddenly as she caught sight of the maester, scurrying off in the direction of the Great Hall, smalls scroll in hand. Her heart began to pound.

Pod followed her gaze as she tracked the elderly man, and then looked back at her. “It could be anything,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. 

She smiled tightly and nodded. She was grateful for him — his unconditional support was such a rare thing in the world; she was lucky.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Of course he knew, she wouldn’t be able to wait to be summoned. 

“No. It’s alright.” 

He regarded her for a moment, his dark eyes gentle. “I’ll come find you, bit later?”

“Yes. Thank you.” 

He watched as she strode away, covering the courtyard with large steps before disappearing through the archway. 

— — — 

 

Brienne nearly ran into the maester as she turned a corner near the Great Hall. The man startled, his chains rattling as he gasped and jumped back. 

“Oh! I’m sorry!” She reached out to steady the man, but he recovered, clearing his throat and straightening, a bit awkwardly. 

She wanted to ask the news, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words. He eyed her firmly — perturbed but not angry.

“You should go and speak with Lady Sansa. There is news from the south.” 

Now she had to catch her breath because, what was it he wouldn’t come out and say? What was it he wanted her to hear directly from Sansa?

She managed a brisk nod of acknowledgement before dashing off around him. She was bracing, filling with dread — the words that haunted her in the small hours already playing in her head, ringing out in Sansa’s mild timbre. 

She barreled through the doors to find Sansa and Bran, seated at a table, conversing softly. They looked up at her, Sansa flinching ever slightly at her noisy entrance, Bran simply…regarding her. 

Sansa rose. “Brienne. I’m glad you’re here. We need to gather everyone.” 

The proper response was probably, “yes, my lady,” followed by the actions required to gather her advisors to the hall. As it was, Brienne could only manage to stare, wide-eyed, as a cold terror pulsed through her veins. Her voice cracked when she spoke. 

“What of… I saw the maester. What is…the news?”

Sansa’s eyes were still, her face firm. “They city has been sacked. Vast portions of it burn. Cersei Lannister is dead…” 

Brienne gasped — she couldn’t help it. She covered her mouth with her hand. 

_“…_ Daenerys sits the Iron Throne. _For now_.”

Brienne _heard_ the last words — mostly — but their significance didn’t truly register. There was too much already, swimming in her head, and she wanted to ask — _needed_ to ask…

“There was no news of Jaime.”  Sansa’s voice was even, betraying no particular opinion on the matter, but her eyes were sympathetic as she watched Brienne take in a breath. 

Thoughts, scenarios spun in her head, an irrational cacophony of every fear she had for him — _He died before he even got there? Or — He died with Cersei but they didn’t bother to write about it? He died after? He was captured — killed? He…._

“He’s alive.” 

It was Bran who spoke, his voice a measured calm. Brienne’s gaze snapped to the Stark boy — he stared at her, looking _through_ her, it felt like. A dozen questions vied for speech. 

He was silent for a long moment, as if considering what else to tell her, then — 

“His part in this world is not over.” 

Brienne started breathing again, shakily exhaling and inhaling, and she could not keep her tears from spilling over. She _hated_ the scene she was making, hated being so weak — wanted to run from the hall…be away, alone. 

And there was work — things would be happening now. She _couldn’t_ indulge this, couldn’t stand here like this, useless — worthless to everyone. She had to focus on her duties…and — _Damn him, anyway, for leaving like he did!_

There it was. 

Behind all of the relief — that he was alive, that the worst of her fears had not already come to pass — _she was angry._

She tried to breathe with it — tired to collect herself as best she could. Sansa was patient, but she shouldn’t have to be. Brienne cleared her throat, forcing, willing nonsense aside. 

“I will call everyone to the hall,” she said, straightening. 

Sansa nodded — thanked her. 

Brienne took her leave and went to work. 


	5. Chapter 5

** Five **

In the end, no arguments held up against Sansa’s resolute declaration that she would travel south. 

_“The North must be there. Our future depends on it.”_

She was her mother then, strong and tenacious. And she was her father, wise, and ever mindful of the bigger picture. As much as Brienne’s first instinct was to insist Sansa would be safer remaining in Winterfell, the acumen in her choice was clear. Whatever the state of the capital, whatever the risk to her safety, traveling there personally, power had shifted in Westeros, and nothing was promised the North that they, themselves, didn’t advocate for.

This was no fragile little girl, as some may have still tried to argue. She had grown up. And she had done so bearing witness to scores of cruel, calculated acts — many played out at her own expense, the political players of Westeros using her without regard — and instead of breaking, withering away, she had hardened. Sharpened. And Brienne thought — _there is no one better poised to lead the North into its future._

Arguments settled or pushed aside, a day of preparation and packing, and they set out for White Harbor, a small party of a dozen men, with Pod, Sansa, Bran, and Brienne at their side. It was slow-going at first, traveling with a carriage in the powdery snow, but the further south they went, the wetter and more packed down the snow cover became, easing their course somewhat. 

On the forth night, with the company holed up at a small inn near a sharp bend in the high White Knife, a fast rider from Winterfell caught up to them, bearing the news of another raven flown in from the south.

Brienne stood in Lady Sansa’s room as she received and read the scroll, the messenger close by, awaiting instructions. She saw Sansa’s eyebrows lift slightly as she took in the text and Brienne realized she was holding her breath — she forced air into her lungs, and out. 

“Thank you,” Sansa said, addressing the rider. “When you get back, please have a reply sent. Let them know we are on the way — tell them the members of our party. That it will be a fortnight, perhaps, to White Harbor, then we hope favorable winds on the sail.” 

She had not initially sent word of their departure — she would do so at White Harbor, she’d said, without explanation — but something in the message had hastened the need for announcement. 

The rider departed swiftly and Brienne stood quietly, not pressing, save for whatever she could not conceal that emanated from her eyes — though she kept her gaze low. 

Sansa sighed lightly, letting the scroll roll up in her hands. “It is as I suspected,” she told Brienne. “Daenerys’ rule is proving tenuous. In the chaos of the aftermath, with her dragon looming above them, it was easy — but now… The city is starting to awaken, and not all agree with her ways. Many call for Jon to rule, instead.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, staring in the middle distance, considering. Then she looked back at Brienne.

“It was Tyrion who wrote. And…” she hesitated, and Brienne took a step forward without thinking, her eyes wide. “He tells it was Jaime who took Cersei’s life. He is alive, as Bran said, but injured. I’m afraid there are no details of prognosis…”

Brienne stood shock still. _Jaime was… And he’d… He’d been the one who…_

Sansa watched her, her gaze gentle. “I will let you know right away if anything else arrives. For now, please get some rest. I would like for us to quicken the pace tomorrow, if we can.” 

Brienne sucked in a breath as she nodded then took her leave, retreating to the adjoining room, her legs moving stiffly in her stupor.

The routine of undressing, readying for sleep, was automatic — performed without attention to the task as her thoughts reeled, her mind floating some place outside of her body. So much so that after she had bedded down, she could hardly recall how she’d gotten there. 

The bed was under-filled and too short for her by length, but even if it had been the most comfortable feather bed in the world, sleep would have been no easier, despite her body, heavy with fatigue. 

_How? How had it happened?_

_Queenslayer…kinslayer —_ she could hear their voices. And she could picture him, grieving. Injured — but how badly? And…would it have been…Euron Greyjoy? Or — _she swallowed, dread filling her_ — the Mountain? Was he barely clinging to life? 

She cursed Tyrion for not saying more. She cursed their slow caravan, wished she could go alone, ride hard — but it would still take too long. And even then, what could she do? Run to him, be with him, nurse him back to health? She was probably the last person he wanted to see. _(He left — he didn’t want her anymore.)_

She had never wished Cersei dead. 

There would have been plenty of her to reckon with over time. Her imprint upon his life, his psyche, was vast and woven deep. But in the north, together, Brienne had felt Cersei’s grip lessening — her claws, sunk so deeply into the very soul of him, retreating. She would always be a part of him, he would always care for her, _but he could heal from her_. Brienne had believed it. She’d felt it — seen it. She’d been sure he felt it, too. He’d been lighter, for a time. 

But then he left — and he would have done it without even telling her if she’d not figured it out on her own. He left her cold and utterly broken, forced to question everything they had shared. Everything she thought she had known — and warring thoughts plagued her still. How she knew him, his heart and soul, and could see his course, even as she had begged him not to leave, pleaded he understand, that he was not responsible to atone for his sister's sins— but then, oh, wasn’t it fitting, wasn’t it expected, for her, the ungainly girl, that he would leave, that he would return to beauty and femininity? She saw his guilt — she knew it, so completely — and she saw her own lack of worth, familiar; a weight on her heart.

Vacillating, unable to reconcile, she was left in the darkest hours of her grief clinging only to her hope for him, his life. That he would hear her words, even a thousand miles away, and believe them. _You’re not like her…you’re better… (Please — live…)_

She closed her eyes, the memories invading as a flood. What was real, among them? 

She should have forced him to talk about it — unmasked the ghost in the room. She’d let herself get caught up in the joy, the warmth — she’d been selfish; she’d wanted more, more of it and nothing else, and she didn’t stop to really think… 

Now, she would count the days of his absence in months — _and it had been a full month now, hadn’t it, since he had gone?_  (He lived…but would he still?)

Something gnawed at the back of her mind, insistent, even as she had just started to feel the first touches of drowsiness; the kind that would have lulled her into sleep, the long day riding, the exhaustion of her troubled thoughts wearing her down. Instead, she found her heart racing suddenly, a cold sweat beading on her forehead...her chest rising and falling rapidly with worried breath. 

_Gods…_

_When was the last time…?_ Her pulse pounded in her ears. 

It had been before. Before Jaime had come to her, _before they had —_

She sat up, panic icing through her. She’d not been herself — they had been so busy. The Long Night, _and then_ … And then after, when grief had consumed her. She’d not even thought about it. 

Without meaning to, her hands slipped to her abdomen. It seemed normal, nothing was different, _and yet…_

She thought about the fatigue. The dizziness. Attributable to heartache, but also…

Gods. It couldn’t be. 

She was breathing too rapidly now — it made her feel light-headed. She forced herself from the bed and set to pacing — tried to draw calm from the motion. Tried to take deeper, slower breaths. 

It was true; she’d not bled since before the Long Night — a full week before it, in fact. Which meant now marked… _more than two months._

She stopped, leaned against the window sill — pushed the paneled glass out ever slightly and breathed the cold air of the northern night. 

She could hardly fathom it. _She’d never really thought…_ More sign that she’d been immersed in a world that wasn’t really for her — swimming, lost, in the sea of it, the sea of him; not really thinking. She’d known, of course, that it could happen, and yet… 

Tears stung at her eyes. She’d been loved and abandoned, and now… It was pitiable. It was…unbecoming her position, her duties. It was…

_A wonder._

It was why her mail fit more snugly now, over her chest. It was why she felt so... _different_. Loss, the unbearable loss, but also her body changing. Remaking itself with new purpose. 

The signs, now that she counted them, were undeniable. She would need to see a maester, but she knew, now — _she knew_. In her body was… _life._ Lifethat they had made; that he had made within her. From death, from loss, from survival, in their fervent, heady time together, they had created something new and innocent and enduring, and she carried it with her now, she was certain — pieces of them both, bound together.

For all the shame of it, the fear of it, what it meant, there was also… _awe_. And… _a fierce protectiveness_  — she had no other way to describe it. She felt it building; rising up to fill her chest with strength and warmth and surety. 

_Jaime…_

She loved him. She loved him still so much — too much — and she would love his child, unequivocally. She felt it, as sure as any oath or pledge she'd ever made — she would love their child completely. 

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems unrealistic that it took her so long to figure it out, let me say -- it happened to me, pretty much just like this. (Well...minus the horses and the swords and the ravens and Jaime fooking Lannister (unfortunately ;) )...but you know what I mean!)
> 
> I do truly think her feelings would be very mixed and all over the place, but that, at the end of the day, our girl has SO MUCH LOVE to give, and that she would feel that love, fiercely, for their child.
> 
> Next up, Jaime's POV, starting back a bit in time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * * * *
> 
> Hi. Jaime's POV for this one. 
> 
> We're back in time a bit, to when our boy leaves Winterfell -- which, to him, is like giving up on his life and riding to his death. :( 
> 
> This is a bit on the short side, but I hope to have more soon (ish). <3 
> 
> * * * * *

**Six**

He was a dying man — as good as a corpse now, parting the gates of Winterfell. 

The path was just barely illuminated by the light of a moon half full and Jaime’s vision blurred as the heaviness in his heart took hold, but he pushed forward with speed, trusting his horse — and desperate. 

The full, unadulterated sound of _utter sorrow_ echoed behind him, and then in his head, heartbreaking and punishing in equal measure. 

He rode hard and didn’t look back. (Couldn’t look back.) 

It was fitting and _so familiar_ , falling back into this existence, where his life was not his own. Where his actions were prescribed — his fate already sealed. 

It would have been nothing except that he knew now, what it was like to live something else. That azure path — the singular, divine joy of it — had been his only briefly, and now came the cost. 

He’d stolen time, claiming precious days in their dreamy otherworld, some secret essence of him basking in sunlight, alive for the first time. _Loved_ , the whole of him — the heavy, twisted metal of his chains bending and breaking, no match for their strength together.

They had survived, and they would _live,_ and it was _everything_ packed into the space of nameless, precious time. He’d taken it all, devouring — drunk on revelation. _Remaking_. 

_What mad audacity, to think he_ **_could_ ** _— to think he got to…_

The truth was, his life in the north had never been his to keep. 

From the south had come his reminder. His comeuppance. Cersei had made sure he knew, he could never truly be free. That she would collect, his golden twin — ever deft and vicious — her claim to him, his future, cemented long ago.

It took his breath away still, to think how close they’d come to the unthinkable. If Bronn had acted covertly instead of confronting him — bribing kitchen staff, a server; distracting the right person at the right time… Jaime would have been helpless to stop it; oblivious that their most mortal threat had come from the other direction. 

He couldn’t shake the image of her, succumb to an enemy she could not fight. It had been his waking nightmare — finding her, too late. Seeing the body that had loved him, fought beside him, impossibly pale and lifeless. Closing the eyes that had adored him, dreamed with him, now frozen in shock and pain…

The promise of a greater reward had won the Bronn over in the end, but Cersei would try again. She wouldn’t stop — wouldn’t rest until she laid waste to Jaime’s life without her. Poison or something else, she would have her due. 

His life was forfeit — hope, prospects; gone — but in his final act, he would make sure Brienne would not be victim to the horrors of his life. That she would live, that she would be free of the terrible burdens she never asked for but that he'd forced upon her, anyway…

_ If only he had died on the battlefield.  _

(Oh — but she would hardly have let him, her sword swirling with his through the long night, dozens of his last moments thwarted when her half of Ned Stark’s blade came crashing down to deliver him…)

Some part of him half-expected the sound of a trailing horse, a crescendoing, steady beat mixing with the wind, but Winterfell was silent in the distance behind him.

He’d done everything he could to ensure she would stay behind, and it had worked, apparently… 

Jaime wiped at his face with his gloved hand and forced deep breaths. The cold air was biting in his chest but clearing to his head.

This was the only way.

He forced his mournful thoughts away as he exhaled — focused instead on the familiar, rhythmic motion of his horse; let it narrow and simplify the world around him. 

It wasn’t long before particular instinct took hold and he was just a rider, distance and speed forming the whole of his purpose; senses tuned to his surroundings, ready to detect and react to anything out of the ordinary. Just his horse, and him, and their forward motion, a driving force across the landscape. 

He pushed hard over the snowpack and the hours swirled around him without regard in the quiet of the deep night. 

Forward — only forward; he didn’t stop until exhaustion nearly knocked him from the saddle. By then, the sky had turned from black to dark blue in a prelude to the dawn. 

Jaime shook himself and slowed, then trotted off the main road to search for a place to shelter and rest. 

A mile or so off, luck found him an expansive outcropping of rock with large crevices and hollows. Not caves, quite, but there were spaces large enough for him to tuck into; shelter enough to protect him from the elements. Keep him from freezing. 

He fed and watered his horse, tied him up as the sky continued to lighten. Weary with the fatigue of riding, depleted from the heaviness of loss, Jaime could do nothing else but surrender. 

He crawled into one of the rocky coves near the ground, drew his blanket around him and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *


End file.
